


John Watson's Not so Ordinary Life

by ad0rably_0rdinary



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Fluff, M/M, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 10:56:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4604115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ad0rably_0rdinary/pseuds/ad0rably_0rdinary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John owes everything to Sherlock, and admires the man deeply. Probably more than he should.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John Watson's Not so Ordinary Life

In a world without Sherlock Holmes, John wouldn't be exhausted, nearly dead on his feet. His body wouldn't be sore, he wouldn't have colorful bruises mapped out across his ribs and each breath wouldn't feel like sandpaper in his throat. He would have a normal life, a nine to five job with no sporadic text messages with addresses promising the thrill of a lifetime. Maybe he'd be married, settled down with a kid or two, a cat as well because he disliked dogs. In short, John Watson's life without Sherlock Holmes would be safe. Ordinary.   
Dull.  
John wouldn't trade his erratic lifestyle for anything, not the required eight hours of sleep or the comforting warmth of a woman at his side as he watched telly. Sherlock had crashed into his world with all the subtlety of a gun, bringing color and meaning to every day they spent together. The man had banished his limp with ease, had given John back the will to get out of bed each morning.   
In short, John owed Sherlock everything. For all the dates interrupted, or girlfriends run off with the explanation of 'I can't compete with him anymore', John received breathless chases down dark alleys, or mind numbing puzzles that even Sherlock's massive intellect couldn't quite pick apart.   
It was a constant adrenaline rush, living with a madman.   
And somehow, in the mess of it all, he had fallen in love with him.  
It had happened slowly, growing hidden in his heart until one day it dawned on him that this warmth and adoration he felt for the man who was poking at eyeballs in the kitchen was not platonic.   
Nor was it returned.   
Sherlock had made it very clear at the beginning of their relationship that he lived for the Work, that everything else in his life was merely transport. He had proclaimed himself a sociopath, had convinced everyone of the fact as well, but John found it hard to believe that a sociopath could play the violin with the raw emotion that bled from Sherlock's fingertips, or throw a man out of a second story window all because he had frightened their beloved Mrs. Hudson.   
"John?" Feeling like he was caught with his hypothetical hand in the cookie jar, John snapped back to his senses and found he was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, staring directly at Sherlock.   
"Sorry, sorry. Must've dosed off standing up," he joked nervously, hoping that whatever experiment Sherlock was conducting was more interesting than John's momentary lapse into his thoughts.   
"You're blushing." the detective murmured nonchalantly, his attention returned to the eyeballs in front of him. Swallowing back a curse, John rummaged through the cupboard in search of a relatively clean mug so he could make himself a much-needed cup of tea.   
"Cuppa?" he offered, though he had already grabbed two cups because he knew the answer would be yes. While the man wouldn't eat a thing for days, John took little comfort in knowing that Sherlock would always accept a good cup of tea and a biscuit if nagged about it enough times.   
"Yes. What were you thinking about that caused you to blush?" Damn Sherlock and his abrasive personality. John flicked the kettle on, carefully pondering his decisions and sighed. If he ignored Sherlock's question, the detective would surely pester him until he went insane or caved in.   
"You," If John's tone was a tad breathier than usual, he blamed it completely on Sherlock and his damned cheekbones. Quietly, and a bit irrationally John willed for the water to heat faster so he could beat a hasty retreat back to his room and forget that any of this ever happened, and continue living a lie under the safety blanket of his heterosexuality.  
"Romantically, yes?" Shoulders tensing, John realized he should've assumed Sherlock had deduced _his_ own bloody feelings before John could muster up the courage to tell him. The man was after all, a genius of sorts.   
"We don't have to talk about it." The words slipped passed his lips before he could think, giving them both an out if Sherlock wanted to take it. If he agreed, John would finish making the tea, set Sherlock's cup on the table (away from the eyes) and return to his bedroom with little more than an aching heart and a bruised ego that would hopefully fade given time.  
"What if I want to?" Sherlock's baritone voice was close, the words almost whispered directly into John's unsuspecting ear. Without turning around he realized belatedly that the man, catlike as always, had gracefully risen from his chair and nearly pressed his lithe body against John without so much as a creak in the floorboards. A warm, soft pressure on his waist guided his wooden body until he was facing the other man, helplessly staring up into pale, knowing eyes.   
The hand trailed up his side, leaving a tingling path in it's wake, reaching to cup his jaw, while the other was on his back, bringing him forward, closer. The air in the room had gone thick, making it almost painful to rasp in a breath though his lungs burned for it.   
"Tell me no," When John made no move to stop him, Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed and in what seemed slow motion, moved forward until their lips pressed together in a soft kiss. It was chaste, tender in a way that told John that Sherlock felt the same as he did though he would never admit it, and over much to soon. There was a disturbance in the air before him as Sherlock's gentle hands released him and with smooth steps, sat himself back down at the table, calm as you please.  
John was reeling, standing frozen to the spot, head still slightly tilted up and lips parted. Sherlock had kissed him, they had _kissed_ and how on earth was Sherlock so unruffled when John could feel his foundations shaking as everything he thought he knew was smashed into oblivion?   
"Tea?" Came the slightly impatient prompt from said man, who seemed to have lost himself once more in the experiment. Licking at his chapped lips that still tasted deliciously of Sherlock, John gathered the mugs and moved to set one on the table, finally noticing the two spots of color high on Sherlock's cheeks and the slight tremor to his pale hands.   
"Make sure you clear that up when you're done." he murmured, pausing only for a moment before dropping a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head. Feeling marginally better and possibly happier than he’d been before, John left the detective to his experiment.

**Author's Note:**

> second story, and it only took me FOREVER to write.   
> Hope you all enjoy!


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